


i'll be like your medicine (you'll take every dose of me)

by leetheshark



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: (written by a trans male author), Alcohol, Dom/sub Undertones, Exhibitionism, Knifeplay, M/M, Penetration, Public Sex, References to Cutting, Trans Male Character, Unhealthy Relationships, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22978861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leetheshark/pseuds/leetheshark
Summary: Roman and Victor get close in the middle of the Black Mask Club.
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Victor Zsasz
Comments: 28
Kudos: 257





	i'll be like your medicine (you'll take every dose of me)

One thing about Roman Sionis is that he keeps his friends _close,_ and his attack dog closer. 

And one thing about Victor Zsasz is that _no one_ touches him without his permission, and no one tries to manhandle him or they’ll lose a hand at the very least.

So it’s only Roman who’s allowed to get this close, a hand clasped around Victor’s scarred wrist as Victor passes by him in the Black Mask Club. Roman’s lounging one of the bright red couches in the middle of the club, looking lazy and smug, like everything revolves around him. Victor could probably shake off his grasp without much consequence, but instead, he stops in his tracks. “Mr. Zsasz.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Will you get me a drink?”

Roman has other people to do that for him, but whatever. Victor likes to feel needed. He’d probably do anything Roman asked. It’s part hitman’s loyalty, and part something else. He nods.

“Strawberry daiquiri,” Roman says. He lets go of Victor’s wrist, grazing Victor’s palm as his hand falls away. “Please,” he adds, as if he needs to.

Victor isn’t dumb, even though he sometimes acts like it to get what he wants, so he knows it isn’t really about the drink. But it doesn’t hurt him to play Roman’s games. He heads to the bar, where he gets the drink for free, because everyone knows who he is. On his way back to Roman, he maneuvers through the crowds of people, careful not to spill the daiquiri. Roman would be mad, but not at him. He’d be mad at whoever bumped into him, which might be fun, but it’s not what Victor’s looking for right now.

Roman’s already looking up when Victor approaches. Victor hands over the drink, brushing Roman’s cool, gloveless hand. There’s a little paper umbrella in it. It’s the kind of tacky bullshit Roman loves. He takes a long sip through the pink-and-white straw, then sets it down on the coffee table beside the couch.

Victor’s about to walk away again—to find someone else to talk to, something else to do, while keeping Roman in his orbit like always, in case Roman needs him—but at the clasp of daiquiri-chilled fingers around his wrist, he halts again. “What?”

“Sit with me.”

Victor plops down beside Roman, hip-to-hip on the couch. Roman’s arm winds around his shoulders.

It’s probably some kind of power move. Victor doesn’t give a shit. Everyone knows well enough that they’re both dangerous on their own—so when people see them cozying up together, they get nervous. Victor’s fine with it. The added benefit is that it lets him into Roman’s space.

Roman smells like cigars and too much cologne, and it’s fucking awful to anyone with taste, but Victor doesn’t have taste. He likes Roman just the way he is. So he sits idle while Roman socializes, laughs when he’s supposed to, lets Roman whisper biting comments about other people into his ear and pretends to be interested. Roman sips his daiquiri from its frosty glass, and Victor doesn’t mind not having a drink of his own—he prefers harder stuff than alcohol anyway, and maybe he can get something later. Roman would buy it for him; he always does.

Being around Roman is always a little intoxicating anyway, with how severe and unpredictable he can be.

Like when the crowd around them momentarily clears, and Roman has no one else to impress, so he leans in close and whispers in Victor’s ear, “Why don’t you sit in my lap?”

Victor barks out a laugh. It wouldn’t exactly be new territory for them. Even if it was, Victor would be happy to oblige. Watching Roman’s eyes—which watch him in turn like a hawk—Victor climbs into Roman’s lap, knees on either side of Roman’s hips, facing him. He steadies himself with both hands on the back of the couch as Roman’s arm wraps around his waist. Maybe it’s risqué. But no one would dare say anything to Roman—no one in their right mind, anyway, and when someone slips up, that’s when Victor gets to have some fun.

Roman finishes his drink like that. Victor gets comfortable in the best seat in the club. It’s especially nice when Roman starts to _react,_ his erection hard and obvious between Victor’s thighs. Victor shifts, just a little—he knows exactly what he’s doing, and Roman knows, too. After Roman sets his empty glass down, he turns back to Victor, mildly pleased.

“Hmm.” Roman reaches up to cup Victor’s face. His fingertips are cool against Victor’s skin. He examines Victor like Victor’s something to buy. Like he’s something to own. Like Roman’s deciding exactly what he wants to do with him.

And then he decides. His hand slides to the back of Victor’s neck, and he pulls Victor in for a rough, sudden kiss.

It turns a few heads. Victor doesn’t care. Tasting strawberry and rum, he grazes Roman’s teeth with his tongue and grinds down onto his lap, and it isn’t the first time they’ve done either of those things, but it’s the first time they’ve done them here. That intimacy’s been mostly relegated to nights at home, alone, only when they’re high and only when they’re still fully clothed (except for that time Victor gave Roman a handy at the breakfast table).

Roman isn’t high, now. Victor doesn’t think he is, anyway. His eyes are clear and piercing when Victor pulls back from the kiss.

Roman’s just about the only person who isn’t afraid to look into Victor’s eyes.

Roman’s hand moves to the side of Victor’s neck, over his pulsing carotid, and taps the two red scars there. His other hand drops into his lap, feeling himself through his slacks. It’s obscene. Roman does it without caring who sees. “I think—” Roman licks his lips and blinks dark eyelashes. “I want to fuck you.”

Roman already knows more or less what Victor’s packing, just because he _knows_ Victor, so Victor knows Roman doesn’t mean up the ass. Which is fine. It’s more than fine. “I’m all yours, boss. You wanna go upstairs?”

“No.” The fire behind Roman’s eyes burns. “No, I don’t think so. I think I want to do it here.”

Victor grins, shark-like. He lives for thrills. “Fine with me.”

“Really? You’ll let me fuck you in front of everyone?”

“Like I said, boss. I’m all yours.”

“You’re all mine,” Roman breathes, bringing a hand up to cup Victor’s face again over the rough stubble there. “All fucking mine. _Fuck.”_

Eager to please as always, Victor unbuckles his belt with steady hands—you don’t get far as an assassin if you’re shaky—and pulls it free, dropping it on the couch beside Roman’s hip. He pops the button at his waistband and starts to get up to take off his pants, but Roman puts a firm hand on his thigh and coos into his ear, “No, no, baby. Don’t get up.”

“You want my pants off or not?”

Roman hums, musical and wordless. He pulls out his switchblade from the front pocket of his slacks, and Victor gets it.

He grins, flashing his gold teeth and saying silently, _I can take anything you dish out._

Roman slips the knife in between the waistband of Victor’s pants and his scarred hip. He drags the blade down. Victor doesn’t wear underwear. The torn fabric falls away and exposes nothing but him. It crosses Victor’s mind that he’ll have to walk out of here like this. He doesn’t care.

Roman’s knife glints under the red overhead lights of the club. He makes quick, impatient work of Victor’s pants, cutting until Victor’s bare to mid-thigh, with the scraps still clinging to his legs.

“Very nice,” Roman says. He puts his knife away and slips his cool hand between Victor’s thighs. The pad of his thumb traces over the ridge of a scar. _“Very_ nice.” Roman’s praise always makes Victor feel good.

With anything else, Victor would let Roman take his time. But he can’t resist goading Roman on. He wants to see what happens. “You gonna get on with it or what?”

“You don’t tell me what to do.”

Despite the pissy look on his face, Roman undoes his belt. He pulls aside the tails of his tucked-in shirt, pushes down the shiny black fabric of his boxer briefs, and pulls out his cock with some flourish, like he expects Victor to be impressed. Victor’s seen it before. He's still impressed. Roman takes Victor’s scarred hip in one hand and guides himself into Victor with the other, pushing up and inside.

Victor sinks down, meeting Roman halfway. He watches Roman’s face, the offended furrow of his brow smoothing out with unquestionable bliss—yeah, Victor likes to feel needed, even if he was the one that got Roman worked up in the first place.

Victor hasn’t done this in a while—hasn’t slept with anyone at all in years, because he has other hobbies that are much more exciting—and Roman’s big, because of-fucking-course he is, so there’s a sting that goes straight up Victor’s spine and rings bells in his head. The movement of Roman’s chest is minute, but Victor sees it, because like a predatory animal, Victor sees everything when it comes to Roman. Roman pretends not to be affected, but he is. By being inside Victor, or by fucking in plain view of everyone, or both. It’s no secret that Roman gets off on attention.

“Tell me people are watching,” Roman says. His eyes are closed, head tipped back against the back of the couch. The movement of his hips is slow, lazy; he lets Victor do most of the work. Victor always expected a rough fuck, but he guesses Roman’s savoring the moment.

“Everyone’s watching.” It’s a lie. From where Victor can see, over the back of the couch, there are only a few people looking. They might not even realize what’s going on. But it’s what Roman wants to hear, and Victor’s good at giving Roman what he wants.

Roman blinks blue-green eyes open. Something in them looks almost sweet. “Take your shirt off.”

Victor’s hands go to his buttons without hesitation, popping them one by one under Roman’s gaze. It feels good, Roman’s eyes on his body. Victor shrugs out of his shirt. It falls off his shoulders and onto the floor behind him, baring the crosshatches of scars scattered over his body. The surgical scars running across his chest don’t stand out among all the ones from Victor’s own hand.

“Are you proud of them?” Roman asks.

Victor nods. Of course he is.

“Even the ones I gave you?”

There are just a few, on Victor’s back, where he couldn’t reach to make them himself. It was a couple months ago, now. It’s precious in Victor’s memory: Victor, standing in front of the full-length mirror in their living room in just his sweatpants, while Roman carved into his back. Five cuts for five men Victor killed on Roman’s orders. Roman’s hands on his body felt almost as good as the knife.

“Yes, sir.”

If people weren’t watching before, they are now. Victor locks eyes with one of Galante’s men across the club, one he used to work with (before he became Roman’s alone). Victor winks.

Roman’s hair is coming undone from its meticulous style, the loose strands falling over his eyes. Just like _he’s_ coming undone. He’s apparently lost interest in keeping his cool, digging sharp fingernails into Victor’s thighs and fucking him without restraint, babbling, “Fuck. Victor. Fucking _fuck.”_

Roman’s dick is good but it isn’t enough, so Victor drops a hand to where Roman’s joined with him. It isn’t the first time he’s jacked off to Roman. He did it after getting Roman off at the breakfast table. He did it after letting Roman cut up his back. He’s never done it with Roman watching.

Or anyone else.

He does it now, working himself like no one’s watching at all while Roman fucks into him, and it doesn’t take long. Victor jerks hard against his hand. It feels like release. It _is_ release. It jacks up his heart rate the same way killing does. He slumps against Roman, hanging on just long enough for Roman to finish inside him, fingernails drawing welts on Victor’s abused thighs.

Roman’s chest heaves. His skin is flushed where it peeks through his shirt. He tucks himself back into his pants without ceremony. “Oh,” he breathes. “Oh. Shit. Holy shit.”

Victor slides off of him and slumps back onto the couch. When he looks over the club, the people that were watching are still watching. And then Roman is in his space again, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over Victor’s shoulders. “What’re you doing?” Victor asks.

“We’re going upstairs.”

“I don’t want your fuckin’ jacket.”

“I don’t give a shit what you want.”

If Roman wants to play sweet, Victor can let him. He lets Roman help him up and through the club, with a possessive hand on the small of Victor’s back through the jacket. “Don’t fucking look at him,” Victor hears Roman snap at someone. He rolls his eyes. “He’s not yours.”

Roman takes Victor into the elevator that leads up to their penthouse above the club, then into Roman’s own bedroom. It’s probably supposed to mean something. It’s probably supposed to be a reward. Victor doesn’t care. He climbs into the king bed that Roman only ever sleeps in alone, with its stupid-expensive black and red sheets, ditching the jacket and kicking off his boots and the remains of his pants.

Victor watches from the corner of his eye as Roman picks his jacket up from the floor with a pout and hangs it in his walk-in closet. He takes off and hangs up the rest of his clothes before climbing under the sheets. “I’ll have someone get your shirt,” Roman says, wrapping his arms around Victor’s waist. The wall of his body is solid and overbearingly warm. “And buy you new pants.”

“Mmm.”

“You’re so good, Victor.” Roman reaches a hand up to cup Victor’s cheek, over the stubble and scars and sweat. “I’m so glad you’re mine.”

“All yours, boss.”


End file.
